Fighting the Loosing War
by sessha-chan
Summary: Souji Okita, Leader of First Squad of Shinsengumi during the Bakamatsu was dieing. This is my quiet fic in memory of the adorable smile Watsukisensei immortilized in my heart. RuroKen SamuraiX Real life Xover


**Fighting the Losing War **

_Japan, spring 1860_

It has been written that the blood of the Shinsengumi flowed like water in the streets of Kyoto during the Meiji Revolution. The Bakumatsu waged a terrible war across the land, striking the capital, Kyoto the hardest. The old ways fought against the new ways and the Tokugowa government was being seriously challenged for the first time in 250 years, since the beginning of the Edo period. As a defense against the Imperialist rebels the Shogun formed the Shinsengumi, also called the Miburo, wolves of Mibu, from ronin, a class of wandering, masterless samurai to police the streets of Kyoto. There was much fighting and bloodshed during those times, as the Shinsengumi fought to defend Tradition.

Souji Okita, the leader of the first squad of Shinsengumi wiped the blood off of his katana blade with a white handkerchief. At 18 he was the youngest Shinsengumi leader and the youngest member, save one. His inborn skill with the sword combined with the early training he had received in the Tennen Rishin sword style helped him earn a place high in the ranks of samurai and gaining him the respect he needed to command effectively.

"Well done, Okita," complimented a tall, narrow eyed man in a blue haori with white mountain peaks on the bottom edges, the uniform of the Shinsengumi. He examined the boy's work with critical eyes; the loss of human life hardly registering in his battle hardened mind.

"Thank you Saitou," Okita smiled up at the older samurai. If not for the blood around him he would have looked as innocent and simple as a spring flower in an arrangement set in a tearoom. His large, expressive eyes glowed with unreadable emotions, "Have you any news on the Battousai?"

Hajime Saitou narrowed his eyes at the mention of the Shinsengumi's most elusive foe. "No. He continues to stalk the streets staining his sword with the blood of Shinsengumi,"

"They say he uses Hiten Mitsurugi style of swordsmanship. I think that I would quite enjoy setting my Tennen Rishin against the legendary Hiten Mitsurugi, such would be a great challenge,"

Saitou scoffed, "Don't be foolish. You are talented and skilled, Okita, but I feel it will take more than even your impressive Tennen Rishin to take down the Battousai," Okita nodded sheepishly and agreed with the older warrior, silently berating himself for being overly prideful. Such was not proper behavior for a true follower of Bushido, the way of the samurai.

Saitou studied the boy out of the corner of his eye. At such a young age his skill and talent was simply astounding and no small amount frightening as well. From speaking with the boy's former master, Isami Kondou, Saitou had learned that Okita had started training at the tender age of nine years, and began teaching in the place of his master at twelve and now at eighteen he was commanding a group of the finest samurai in battle. He had swiftly garnered the control and discipline necessary for leadership. Such an accomplished samurai was he that he never once let slip his true feelings in or out of battle. He had so much control that many of his men wondered if he was even capable of normal human emotions. He was of course, Saitou knew, but early on Okita had found that it was a great advantage when your opponent was left disconcerted and wondering. But despite the abnormality of his outward emotions his personality was quite plainly obvious, speaking of a kind, caring, and downright pleasant person when he was off the battlefield.

"Saitou?" Okita ran a hand nervously through his hair.

"What?"

"Do you suppose that the Battousai will be there? At the meeting?"

"I doubt it. Assassins, no matter their prowess do not warrant invitations to such important meetings,"

"Right, right," Okita bobbed his head in understanding and smiled at his own naiveté. Of course he wouldn't be attending, he was only an assassin and the meeting was for the leaders. Besides, Okita thought, he didn't have to worry about that right now as it was still several months off.

The two walked the streets with their respective squads, patrolling the deceptively calm streets. Spring was in full flower and the late blooming white plum blossoms could be tasted on the air. Warm sunshine soothed the vindictive bite of the season's cool breezes. The packed earth streets tossed up only minimal amounts of dust at the feet of its travelers. Many ladies were outside enjoying the pleasant weather while it lasted knowing that the spring rains could come without warning and strike with a fury.

It was along one such crowded street that Saitou paused effectively halting the movement of the rest of the Shinsengumi that accompanied him.

"What is it Saitou?" Okita looked up at his face then scanned the crowds warily searching for threats of any form. Nothing seemed to be out of place, so what was bothering Saitou?

"I smell blood,"

"Wha- blood?" Okita was shocked but quickly laughed it off, "That's only your warrior spirit, Saitou. You have seen to many battles of late!" he giggled lightheartedly. Saitou scowled at the perceived mockery and resumed walking, stuffing his handing into his haori sleeves.

"Okita, test each word and weigh them carefully in your mind before you speak. Your life could one day depend on it," he lectured severely.

"Right, right," he bobbed his head again, still smiling broadly like nothing in the world could dampen his high spirits at the moment.

Neither particularly noticed the young man that watched them as the continued on down the street. He was young, 16 or thereabouts, with fiery red hair pulled up into a ponytail on top of his head, violet eyes that looked to old to be housed on such young face, and an unhealed sword wound on his left cheek. He wore a well kept and oft-used sword tucked into the sash of his hakama.

"They walk the streets as if they owned then," Said a particularly nondescript man that walked up behind him. He paused and idly let his gaze wander over the flowing crowd.

"Shinsengumi," the redhead snorted derisively, and brushed some lint off of his navy blue gi, "They are no match for my sword. What is it you want Izuka?"

"You're needed tonight," Izuka slipped a folded note into the redhead's gi sleeve pocket and walked off, blending into the crowd. The redhead waited a few more moments before stalking off in the opposite direction.

A breeze carried along a handful of pale, pale pink petals and a white crane in the nearby river took flight.

* * *

The summer moon bled red that late July night. The Shinsengumi entered Ikeda-ya, the hotel where the rebel forces were meeting, plotting to destroy Kyoto by fire in order to cripple the Aizu clan, who were closely allied with the Shinsengumi. Okita and Saitou led their men up the darkened stairs to the second floor, their straw sandals shuffling against the wood of the stairs and the woven tatami mats. The cowards tried to avoid detection by putting out the lights, but their deception failed. A formal challenge was issued and ignored. Kicking down the decorated shoji that stood between the opposing forces the battle was begun.

Moonlight from the open windows silhouetted and reflected off of the steel of clashing katana. The sounds of battle and death could be heard form many streets over. People shuttered their windows in vain trying to deafen the sounds of horror.

For the hundredth time since the beginning of the Bakumatsu Okita thanked the Shinto gods and Buddha for the blade, the Kikuichi Norimune, that he held in his hands. The white wrapped sword sang in his hands and never once failed to slay when needed. Its edge was honed so fine it could split hairs and it moved like light or sound made solid.

Standing still for a moment, bathed in moonlight, arm and sword still outstretched in the finished position of Okita's last attack he suddenly coughed violently, his whole body thrown into the spasms. Spitting blood out of his mouth and wiping it away from his lips he wondered franticly if anyone had noticed. No one seemed to so Okita continued on with the bloodletting.

The battle spilled out onto the streets as the rebels fled and the shinsengumi pursued like the wolves they were called. Eventually the violent bloodletting ceased and Okita, with the surprising amount of Shinsengumi survivors, began the grueling task of retrieving the dead and wounded.

"Okita, sir!" shouted a warrior down the street. He held a lantern over a patch of carnage piled up against a building wall. As Okita trotted over his heart fell when he recognized the blue and white Shinsengumi haori uniform. Okita coughed again, blood staining his lips and hand. Quickly he wiped them clean on the handkerchief used to clean his sword. No one would notice a little more blood there.

"Sir, are you alright?" Okita waved aside the question to examine the bodies.

"This is the Battousai's style," he whispered. The bodies were cut through in a style he had seen few times before. At first glance it looked to be in the style of a Jigen swordsman, but it was to powerful, to clean. The bones were sheered smoothly and there was a minimum of unnecessary wounds. The entirety of the work was almost neat and tidy, and would have been so if people didn't bleed so much. "Such skill… but it looks to be like he allowed them a chance. Their weapons have been drawn,"

"Why would he give them warning?" someone asked.

Maybe he was bored, Okita though grimly but refused to give the words voice. There was no point in upsetting the men with such thoughts. But it made sense in a macabre way, once one got proficient enough all fighting after that was merely exercise, and sometimes poor exercise at that. Why not allow your opponent a chance to liven things up for you?

As the adrenaline from the fighting receded from Okita's system a wave of dizziness washed over the young warrior, introducing him intimately to the blood soaked ground.

* * *

Okita grimaced and washed the blood off of his hand and out of his mouth. The cursed illness was getting progressively worse and more difficult to hide. He continued to hide the blood he coughed up but he just knew that Saitou and some of the other men had their suspicions, but not enough hard evidence to send him off the field. They needed his skill far too much for this war they were loosing. Their victories were getting fewer and farther apart as more imperial sympathizers fought. The triumph of the Ikeda-ya affair seemed a distant memory even though it happened only a year ago.

"Okita," it was Saitou. Okita hid his still bloody hands in his haori sleeves as he turned and smiled. Saitou stood in the door to the kitchen looking as imposing as ever.

"What is it Saitou?" He asked cheerfully, inwardly worrying that Saitou would smell the blood. Of all the Wolves of Mibu Saitou could pick up the scent of blood with alarming ease.

"Battousai is back in Kyoto," he grimaced.

"He is?" Okita's heart soared with unholy delight. Another chance to challenge the Assassin of the Bakumatsu. He had disappeared the night they attacked the Ikeda-ya and no one could tell where he was. It was like he had literally dropped off the face of the planet.

"Indeed," Saitou grinned.

Suddenly taking the night watch sounded quite appealing.

* * *

Darkness stole silently through the almost deserted streets of the capital. The near full moon was hidden behind thick clouds, but even in the depths of night the war did not cease.

Okita led his squad down the winding streets in pursuit of a group of rebels. Turning a corner they joined with Saitou's group. The two squads almost caught up with their quarries, but a man quite deliberately stepped between them.

He wore a dark haori over a navy blue gi to ward off the night chill. His red hair was tied up on top of his head in a ponytail that flowed down his back in a cascade of fire. But it was the scar on his cheek that practically screamed who he was. This was Himura Kenshin, the Hitoriki Battousai, the Assassin of the Revolution. Okita felt a tremor of unholy glee dance up his spine at the thought of crossing blades with the powerful man.

Casually picking up a red pomegranate blossom for a dramatic flair, the young samurai stepped forward. All eyes focused onto the youngest leader, waiting to see what he would do. He had to fight, that was one of the primary rules of the shinsengumi.

"Mister Himura, it is a pleasure to meet you at last," crushing the blood red flower in his hand he tossed it aside and drew his white sword. The Battousai drew his as well, accepting the challenge. Both warriors stared hard into the other's eyes, refusing to look away, an accepted practice among the elite swordmasters.

Okita coughed violently, this time not bothering to clean up the blood except to spit out what was in his mouth, so focused in the upcoming battle he hardly noticed or cared. But Saitou noticed and stepped forward, pushing the young samurai behind him. Okita's back stiffened at the insult. How dare Saitou claim the duel! This was the moment he had been waiting for ever since they had spotted the Battousai's first victims.

"Enough, Okita, let me deal with the Battousai," the older samurai knew full well what he had just done, but he also knew that Okita had to many powerful friends to just go gambling his life away in a single duel.

"But Saitou, I _am_ the leader of the first squad of Shinsengumi, you know," he protested. Saitou glanced over his shoulder and smirked.

"But you're also not feeling well tonight, are you?" His smirk softened to a smile, "You can't pull the wool over my eyes," Okita spat more blood out of his mouth and grudgingly stepped back, conceding to the older samurai. His disappointment was tangible.

Saitou drew his sword and turned towards the Battousai. The minutes ticked by as they stared at each other before both moved at the same time, each unleashing their signature attack, Himura executing the battoujutsu and Saitou the gatoutsu.

Lightning flashed as their swords met.

* * *

Rain poured from the heavens outside the glass window beside the occupied hospital bed. Peace had been established for a year now, but it wasn't the peace Okita had fought for. The Imperialist forces had successfully overthrown the Tokugowa government. The shinsengumi, loyal to their ideals had fought as long as they could but even they could not hold out forever. Now there was only a handful of the brave warriors' left and only two of the leaders, other than Okita himself.

Saitou, Okita knew, had changed his name to Fujita Gorou and was now working for the Meiji government as a special operations police officer. As he had explained, it put him in a position to watch and make sure that the new government behaved itself. Okita supposed it made sense but he wondered how long his friend could live under the new rule.

The other survivor was Shinpachi Nagakura, the leader of the second squad. He had seemed to settle in quietly, and confessed to Okita that he intended on writing a book about the Shinsengumi. He intended that the world know that the Shinsengumi had been fighting for the right and just, and were not the monsters that the Meiji government were making them out to be. Okita thought that was wonderful idea.

But all Okita could do now was lay prone on the western-style bed and watch the rainfall. The tuberculosis had progressed into its' final stages and the doctors all ha admitted that there was not much that they could do and he had little time left in this world. He could feel his mortality slip through his fingers like sand as he succumbed to the deadly illness and diligently came to peace with it. When asked if he had regrets about this life he replied that the only thing he regretted was that he had not been able to ever duel the Battousai. Always there was something that came between their battles.

He had lived and fought for what he believed in during this life. No, he had no regrets, but his heart went out to those he had fought with that would live for some years now, and the people who this war was fought for. Because who was stronger, the people who won, or the people who held true to their beliefs after defeat, tenaciously fighting their very own losing war? That is the hardest war to fight.

A nurse doing her rounds paused by Okita's beside. She felt his wrist for a pulse, sighing when she felt none. A patient in a wheeled chair asked her what was the matter.

"I'm gonna miss the man," she said softly. "He was such a nice person, even if he was a Samurai,"

"Is he dead?"

"Yes, he just died. It's probably for the best. He has been sick far too long,"

She looked down at the lifeless body. He had lost the wars, both of them.

_Owari_

There you go! Okita-goodness!


End file.
